A little faster, Grandma;
Let the steam fly
off my strings.
It’s all in my head;
the sheet on the bed,
pillow under my neck.
A little faster, Grandma;
we may never
speak of this again.
You’re tired and sleepy,
but I’m dreaming up
whole and half-notes.
A little faster, Grandma;
the brass is percolating,
I am composing.
Your wrinkles not ironed,
however I iron out
the rhythm and time.
A little faster, Grandma;
we’re not at a slow pace,
as the lyrics strum cheek to cheek.
Daylight breaks in front of me spilling its energy all over me, a radiant light covers the place and my heart starts racing out of control and all of a sudden something elevates on top of the hill. I wasn’t sure how I got there, but something inside had conquered all the fear, it is that magic moment that you feel when wisdom has iron out the deal and the mongoose hiding in the bush gives an extra push and when the old curse of Canterbury lay down its gun; the village people came out of nowhere and walk with me up to the stair and I could not hold back the tears.
a day inside my mind
What to do? There is so much news
Trump, my mate, didn't do so well. he thought
he could wing it
against a woman whose handlers had dissected
Trump's tendency to brag, beside we must not forget
my old mate is seventy-eight
I have posts in the messenger but can't get in the asks
me for code words, they never asked before
if they have, I have forgotten it all
mind at school, I was good at the multiplication table
but after that, numbers are enemies that cause me
trouble with the tax people
My wife had minor surgery today. I spent
the day at the hospital had lunch there,
The hospital is next door to the car- a testing place where I have to bring my old car for testing
once a year, if the vehicle fails
it will be a catastrophe if that is not enough,
I have to renew
my driving license, which we old people have to do
every year to see if we can drive
I have to give the car to my mechanic to iron out the faults
then I have to see a doctor who will test my hearing
and reactions to sudden happenings.
Most of all, I worry about my wife, sit watching
a TV romance, for once, she is silent
There is this man
In patterned shirt, perfectly ironed without creases
Where turquoise and gold tear the cloudy sky
Sitting in the concrete castle.
One cannot iron out the scars of the artist.
Artists do not go slowly like turtles but soar and dive in wild, unrestrained dance listening to trees and wind and rain.
Artists embrace, and burn with passion and float among the rainbows, clouds and fluffy little bunnies.
The man holds the thin red string that grounds the artist.
Artist will throw him on the bed, untucking his shirt forming creases and ripples,
Artist will blow raspberries on man's lower stomach and tickle his inner thigh
Artist will allow him in her depths
Artist will call him imzadi and sleep on his coarse chest hair
Artist will want him to stay
Matters of reason and heart will clash
And streams of salty water will form waterfalls.
The reality will shatter like broken glass.
Home for the artist is with the man in perfectly ironed shirt without creases.
Sunday did not pan out,
an iron faith faltered.
It was a wane wobble.
it was cellular rust,
it was not enough iron.
Iron pills rattle in me like BB pellets,
my stools are obsidian artifacts.
More red wine, less whine.
The day got no better,
anemic confusions swirled.
I sucked upon nuts and bolts,
listened to Metallica,
had to iron-out yet more
non-ferrous unpleasantness.
Your strongest day is standing
just outside your door. Let it in.
Each day the sun comes home to you
it whispers with the wind
calling out your name.
This is no video game.
Life’s a bouquet banquet
made from your reflections.
You do not need directions.
Pick your moments carefully.
Stop and smell the roses,
leave your motor running
for the dangers trust exposes.
Listen to where life comes from
the beating sound of your own drum.
Make the most of music that it brings.
Unraveling all your tangled balls of strings.
With patience Iron out each peace,
holding tight to all you love
with nails and teeth.
Now put your stubby thumbs
through their tiny holster loops
and pull your britches up.
Hitch them high,
and puff out your chest !!
You’ve always been ready for this.
This is not a test.
This is your life.
The dress that you gave me
My favourite one, hangs in my closet
Next to none, I have outgrown the colours
Hanging on to the memories hidden in its folds.
The smell of you and me
Washing out the blotches of the past
Trying to Iron out the creases
From each and every line.
How easy life would have been
Had relationships been like clothes
If we could change them each day
Wiping out all you said and never understood.
31.11.2020
Sunday did not pan out,
an iron faith faltered;
events planned
wandered off like drunken sheep.
It was the Advil,
it was the insomnia,
it was not enough iron in my soul.
Speaking of which, my stools
are obsidian artifacts;
a consequence of iron therapy.
The day got no better,
the drunk sheep returned all at once,
tin replaced iron,
anemic confusions swirled
my spirit grew pale.
Within me
body bugs binged
on iron
while the blood dieted.
Sunday smelts to Monday
a peaceful time,
my inner ghost is recovering,
sheep are grazing.
I suck upon nuts
and bolts
make plans,
iron-out
future road bumps.
Like wild buccaneers
on a partying raid,
they came ashore.
Fierce waters and winds
wielding their destructive swords
grabbing defenceless trees by the necks:
viciously shaking their hair-like foliage heads;
bending their backs; snatching them up
and throwing them here and there.
With torrential forces,
the marauding buccaneering
waters and winds leveled mortared
and boarded constructions
as if they were thatched huts of shade.
Young and old beings
became like unripe and ripened fruits
consumed by the ravaging forces of nature.
Behind, lay skeletal fields and sandy shores
laden with rampaged debris.
Satisfied with the fun and booty,
the buccaneering twins
return to their seafaring sails
in search of more up roaring.
Meanwhile, the prodigal Sun returns,
reflecting dry salty tears
pasted on the faces of those
who must now iron out their wrinkled lives.
In the aftermath, Nature makes no apologies
and God can’t be cursed.
WE KNEAD SUCH & SUCH:
TO COME DOWN HERE
AND SERANDE THESE
DRIFTING LOVERS
MAYBE THE SWEET SOUNDS
OF MUSIC
MIGHT INSPIRE THEM
TO IRON OUT THERE
DIFFERANCES
BASSOONS
OBOE
FLUTES
DRUMS
GUITERS
KETTLERS
CONGO'S
CLARINETS
VIOLENS
CHELLOS
PIANO
SWEET RANGES OF BACKGROUND SINGERS
SUCH AND SUCH A PLACE
AT SUCH AND SUCH
A TIME
TWO WILLINGFUL LOVERS
WHO LOVE ONE ANOTHER
OOH OOH, OOH
SUCH AND SUCH A PLACE
AND SUCH AND SUCH A TIME
SUCH AND SUCH A PLACE
AND SUCH AND SUCH A TIME!
Walk and talk affection
In conducive tones
That fertilise attention
To concerns affecting real folks and their comfort zones
Where each critical move you make
Adds to their happiness in tough times
As for them you bake a friendship cake
To improve climes
In which they operate
Daily
As support and back up you generate
Weekly and monthly
When they feel low
As life circumstances conspire
To deal them a huge blow
That deflates their confidence tyre to retire
Their self confidence
Which sometimes oscillates
In a distorted cadence at a glance
That vacillates
Between positive and negative
Vibes
Sometimes exclusive and punitive
When scribes
Predict their imminent downfall
As life’s clock chimes
To call
For the removal of mimes
Folks can’t lip read
Without expertise
In decoding the love creed
Whose consultation fees
Folks can’t afford
Cos no price is high enough
To convert the discord encountered into a promising accord
Between the meek and the tough
Until a Reggae ambassador intervenes
To iron out pesky issues
By using Reggae means
So no affected party in a court of law the other sues.
Stuck under the mango tree where you dumped me
I fret, fret, fret, fret and fret
Wondering why you disfigured my peace with glee
When happiness for you and I so much easier to target and get
Than to give me the cold shoulder treatment
On me you inflicted
As though this indictment
Sorrow from your soft centre deflected
When far better for you and I to iron out
Tiff and beef
You feel in your mind floated the doubt and gout
Shoving our love to the rim of a cliff
From which you and I might not recover
Once we plunged into the ether of the unknown
Meaning somehow to discover
The path to the perfect peace we’ve blown, torn and known
Throughout the years we’ve travelled
Through thick and thin
Although disheveled we marveled and swiveled
Through mean and din
Until at long last our wedding bells rang
To our parents’ delight
Bang, clang and slang
Diffusing through nights of boundless bliss and light
Which you and I ought to save
Despite loud clouds that on our horizon gather
To divert and hurt our salvation stave and wave
As we surge forward with determination to a bright future together.
Let the kinks and oddities remain esoteric
to herald that special uniqueness
that makes you, just you, as you are.
Resist the shapers and conformity grinders
that would smooth out the crumples,
iron out the creases and wrinkles.
Your texture becomes you when gripped,
Your spikes and bumps adorn, when worn displayed
Through hell and blows by the hammer of life
you bounced back
Nothing will undo you again
only make you stronger and more whole
Easy street poster child
Hype's the bluffers decoy by those who haven't lived
Blindfolded in their self-deception
They remain juvenile - raw and without form
Caterpillar entombed...... doomed never to crown butterfly
Spared the panel-beater's hammer, they lie idly parked
gathering dirt, rusting and decaying
The hammer's blows iron out our crudeness
and refine us into bright sparkling diamonds for the roles
we star in life, until we are immune to the hammer's slight knocks,
scrapes and scratches - bulletproof
Just about to thaw
Then the numbness blankets me
I thought we finally hit our stride
But it’s me who can’t seem to see
I’m the plague
The infection that spreads
Rusting the perfect simplicity
Taking captives and counting heads
I have to tie down the bodies
Make them stay with me
Just a matter of time
‘till they break free and flea
Why can’t I get the story straight
It’s that lullaby baby
You know it, but I changed it until it appealed to me
The one I’ve tortured into a hellish reality
Lay my head down
Wake up stone cold with warm insides
Wrapped in self-hate, liquid fire in my veins
Fumbling to iron out the stains
You can’t cool a feverish obsession
Just want to feel that high low
Addicted to running from rehab
Can’t outrun the shark you owe
I shed my pretty
Let you see the ugly side of me
The problem is now
I can’t hide behind that old reverie
Cast aside like a bad dream
I can’t seem to keep ‘em
They’ll just keep running from me
Because that pretty face has a rotten pedigree
I’m going to watch you drown
I think it was worse then when I clamped down
False hoping like a penny fool junkie
Chin up sweetheart it’s not your crown
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